Surprisingly Good Food in Atlantic City

The Itty Bitty Pretty One wanted me to go to Vegas with her, but I said it was too hot. She countered with how about a weekend in Atlantic City. Sounds good.

I haven't been in years. I used to like the carpeted-darkness-interspersed-with-colored-lights-and-frenetic-action-of-the-casinos-by-the-bright-beach-with-gray-surf aspect of it. And the free-drinks aspect. And the winning-at-blackjack aspect. And I liked the Bill Murrayesque lounge singers and glasses of goldfish crackers at the little cocktail tables. I'd had a fun time there with a group one New Year's. One of the boys had pulled up the new latex double yellow lines from the road in front of my Pittsburgh dorm, and laid them down the length of our hotel room to ensure I'd "feel at home."

It seems seedier now. Itty and I are disgusted that the casinos don't seem to help the town out with any of the cash that they cart away. Eyeing our fellow tourists, Itty says, "There are a lot of bad outfits here." I reply it's inexcusable since the proliferation of Old Navy. We talk about my hair.

Itty says, "Lane, you have such a pretty face, you can wear your hair any way." I really like hanging out with Itty.

At lunchtime, a casino worker runs up to us as we're entering Hooters and gives us each 20-percent-off coupons. So, a cheap lunch. If you're going to eat in a casino, might as well enter through the casino rather than the boardwalk. I didn't think the girls' outfits were that sleazy, but Itty did. Steamers were good. Fries were bad.

We walk the boardwalk and venture into a couple of casinos. I hear slot-winning ching chings. I walk toward the sound, looking to see who the lucky winner is and end up standing under a speaker in the ceiling: "...ching ching ching..."

"Sneaky," says Itty.

In the evening we listen to an islandy band at the outdoor Casbah while looking out to sea in a cool breeze. Inside the mirror-caissoned and colossally chandeliered Taj Mahal, I discover that I find video poker completely mesmerizing. If we hadn't gotten hungry, I would still be sitting there losing money and downing the complimentary cocktails that help you to lose more. Itty carefully separates the state quarters from her winnings before converting them to bills, and we head to Luna at the Claridge.

The barback immediately pours us a huge goblet of peanuts, even though a half-goblet is already within reach at the bar. Red wine is poured into balloon glasses. The dining room is inviting, with a mirrored soft pink glow that somehow achieves a golden timelessness; this gambit for casual luxury could easily have looked dated. Holding happily chatting customers, the place is still jammed at 10 p.m. There's an elegant harpist in a slinky black gown; she has to play "Happy Birthday" four times in just the time we're there. Several departing tables have personal relationships with staff. Discussions of getting tickets and I'll call you and weekend plans.

The personable bartender asks for opinions on our reds. My Chianti is fruity and it's fine; neither offensive nor special. She talks wine with us; like my dad, she's a California fan. U-S-A! U-S-A! Tells us about Napa sending some vines back to France to bail them out of a blight. Says rightly that the only thing that's important about a wine is if you like the taste or not. The offer is made to carry our tab over to our dinner check.

After we're seated, the exceptional maitre d' returns to tell us who our servers will be. The table is filled with a loaf of good, golden-crusted, yeasty bread and big dishes of olived campanata and garlicky salted olive oil sprinkled with shredded parmesan and fresh basil. My dad said you can tell a restaurant by its bread, and slabs of this homemade boule dipped in the "Italian butter" bodes well.

It's really hard to pick an appetizer. There's a design-your-own antipasto option offering imported bocconcino, marinated jumbo shrimp, an hors d'oeuvres assortment and nine more Italian goodies to choose from. Also a lobster bisque on the menu. But the Luna salad ($6.75) comes with roasted red peppers, and I would order blanched cardboard if it came with roasted red peppers.

The special entree is filet mignon for $31. I don't like to order filet in a restaurant as it's not an especially tasty cut. Filets that I buy at a decent market and throw in a pan for a few minutes can be as good as at the steakhouse.

The salad has slightly wilted spinach leaves and tender battered baby artichokes, neither fibrous nor thorny, in a bacon dressing. The dressing is light enough not to detract; the tiny bits of bacon add a hint of smokiness.

On top of the salad sit incomprehensibly numerous and large dices of Gorgonzola, a challenge from the chef. Between those silky sweet roasted red peppers and the satiny chunks of cheese, I have no problem rising to it. On Itty's end of the table sits a red pepper-topped appetizer of stuffed littlenecks ($8.95), which she polishes off.

My entree is a dish I'm rarely able to resist, penne alla vodka, with asparagus ($13). The stalks are on the bitter side. But the creamy flesh-colored sauce and plentiful sun-dried tomatoes reaffirm my choice. The tomatoes are lush, neither overly withered nor chewy. Itty selects poached salmon in a saffron sauce ($21). Before ordering, she'd asked, "What's saffron?" Poindexter sitting across from her replied, "Saffron is a spice with a very nice flavor but can be bitter if too much is used. It's expensive, as it is harvested by hand and only a small amount can be gathered from each plant. It's often used to flavor paella or other rice dishes. Turmeric is sometimes passed off as saffron, because it is less expensive and works well to color food a saffron yellow, but it does not have as fine a flavor." Itty didn't look up from her menu, she's used to her nerdy friend.

It had become laughingly inevitable that the 6-footers in our crowd would be served nouvelle portions while a piled-high plate would be set in front of Itty, and at Luna of course they bring her the salmon that ate Chicago. But she does a pretty good job on it; she really likes it. It's bright pink, in a yellow saffron pool. She also gets a side of what is called "Bittersweet Broccoli" ($3) on the menu. She demands of the server, "Is that broccoli rabe?" Oh yes it is. We figure they think tourists wouldn't know from broccoli rabe. The portion is generous and the emerald green of properly cooked vegetables.

Itty prefers proportionate portions. Last summer, at an Italian spot in Newport, Miss Michelle had ordered three garlic breads for 10 hungry girls. Little Itty had admonished her, "Oh, that's too much." Of course we finished it. Then Itty had said to Miss M, "This isn't a come-on, but how does it feel to be the prettiest one out of all these girls?" But Michelle wouldn't tell us how it feels. I said, "That is a come-on and she's mine, so back off." Itty thought she hadn't answered because she was annoyed at the question. But I think it's possible that Michelle doesn't really know what she looks like. She'd had a fat husband who incessantly told her to lose weight. From where? Her C-cups? So she doesn't realize that she knows what it feels like to be the prettiest, because she can't see that she is the prettiest. She wasn't annoyed, just stumped. Oh, and she lost the weight?220 pounds of whining rockstar wannabe.

We cannot possibly order dessert, although the big, generously whipped-creamed slices of cake I see at other tables are so tempting. The waitress explains to the group next to us that their cheesecake is actually a reduced-calorie version. They are in awe. After their server leaves they dazedly whisper, "I can't believe it."

The check is so gentle I do a double-take. Service to a man was topnotch, not one falter. I'm thinking that if you are in the service industry in a gambling town, it pays off tip-wise to be hospitable.

The Hollywood-handsome maitre d' won't let me leave until I take not one, but two chocolate mints. We consider a club near our hotel, but the line is all straight guys dressed to impress Jersey girls. Of the seemingly single-sex clientele, Itty jokes, "Maybe they're gay."

"Nah, not good-looking enough."

We repair to the Hard Rock. A guy at the bar bumps into Itty's chairback a couple of times. She gives their group a big glare, so they send us a round. I really like hanging out with Itty. It's a gabfest till we close the place.

Luna at the Claridge Casino Hotel, Indiana Ave., Atlantic City, 609-340-3400.